


Misunderstandings + Pizza Margherita

by el_spirito



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hurt Napoleon, Hurt/Comfort, Misunderstandings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-26 02:25:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17133275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/el_spirito/pseuds/el_spirito
Summary: In which Gaby is injured, Illya jumps to conclusions, Napoleon is wounded (both physically and otherwise) and pizza is shared.





	Misunderstandings + Pizza Margherita

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Luvvy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luvvy/gifts).



> Happy holidays, Luvvy! Thanks for the lovely prompts, and I hope you enjoy :)

Looking back, Illya probably could have handled things better. In the heat of the moment, though, all he could see was Gaby stumbling out of the compound with one hand clamped over her side, the other slung around Solo’s waist (because his damn shoulders were both too tall and too broad for her to sling an arm over without pulling at her wound) and blood dribbling out between her fingers. A third man was behind them, gun drawn and providing cover.

“Medic!” he bellowed, hurrying to their side as Gaby collapsed to her knees in the snow, Napoleon letting out a grunt at the movement. 

“Peril--” he said, but Illya paid him no mind, scrabbling at Gaby’s jacket. 

“Let me see,” he hissed as Gaby pushed weakly at his hands. She looked up at him with red-rimmed eyes, face pale, and offered him a watery smile. 

“Hurts more than I thought,” she said, the strain clear in her voice. From somewhere behind where Illya was crouching, Napoleon let out a pained groan; Kuryakin grit his teeth and ignored him. 

“You are a real spy, finally,” he said, easing Gaby forward and searching for an exit wound on her back. His fingers came away bloody and he nodded to himself grimly. 

“Hell of a rite of passage,” Gaby muttered from between clenched teeth. She was trembling now and growing paler; shock was setting in. 

“Where are the medics?” Illya barked, then finally beckoned to Napoleon. “Solo.” 

Napoleon hurried over, and Illya realized for the first time that he also looked paler than usual and was carrying his arm strangely. Still, he should have watched Gaby’s back. 

“I need to keep pressure on the wound. You hold her legs up. Gaby, we’re going to lay you down now, okay?”

Gaby nodded and Illya eased her down; Solo clumsily slid in behind him to lift her legs and rest them against his torso and legs. He must have jostled his arm with the movement because he let out a strangled gasp and when Illya turned to him, his face was green, lips bloodless. 

“‘M fine,” Solo managed, even offering a wan smile. 

Illya didn’t answer. Gaby groaned beneath him, eyelids fluttering, and Illya was about to shout for the medic again when he ran up to them, first aid kit at his side and breathing heavily. 

“Sorry sir, had to deal with another injury. What have we got?” 

Illya glanced at the man’s name tag -- Morton, not someone he was familiar with -- and then at the man’s boyish face. “You are the medic?” 

Morton nodded furiously, likely familiar with the question. “Yes sir, and I can assure you that I’m highly qualified. Now, if you don’t mind…” He trailed off and gestured to Gaby. 

“Of course,” Illya said. “She was shot in the side but there’s an exit wound, started getting shocky a few minutes ago. Her breathing seems okay, pulse is a little fast.” 

Morton nodded again. “Great. If you’ll just back up a bit,” he said, looking to Illya, “and if you’ll keep her legs up.” Solo straightened up from where he’d been drooping slightly, jaw tightening in that determination that Illya was more than familiar with only a few months into their partnership. 

Illya watched with a sense of growing pressure as Morton assessed Gaby’s wound, checking her heart rate and blood pressure and scribbling notes into a little notebook he pulled from his pocket; as Solo watched the medic with wide eyes, hair flopping into his face and looking as disheveled as Illya had ever seen him. Watching him, Illya felt the redness increase behind his eyes, his pulse echoing in his ears, and his hands trembling. 

“Illya,” Solo said, voice low, and Illya snapped back to awareness. 

“We’re going to take her to the hospital now,” Morton said. Illya blinked and looked down; there was an oxygen mask on Gaby’s face and a few other people with a stretcher next to her. Illya wasn’t sure when that had happened. “You can follow after us.” 

Illya nodded, but Morton still seemed unsettled. 

“We’ll take good care of her, sir.” 

Illya swallowed thickly. “Of course,” he said, then watched as they shifted Gaby onto the stretcher and lifted her up. Solo also watched, his expression stricken, until she was gone from sight and it was largely just he and Illya with members of the tac team milling about now that the crisis was over. 

“What.  _ Happened, _ ” Illya spat, looking up from where he was still kneeling on the ground. Solo leveraged himself to his feet until he was standing lopsidedly and looked at the ground, teeth worrying at his lip. 

“I don’t -- it was so fast,” he murmured, voice fractured. “I tried to, to get to her but someone got in my way --” 

“What was she doing first in there anyway?” Illya snapped, pushing himself to his feet. He drew himself up to his full height, rage burning. Solo blinked up at him, eyes wide and stricken. 

“Illya, I--” 

“You what? What, Solo?” He turned around so that he was facing away from the other man, hands clenched into fists at his side, breathing heavily.

Looking back, he’ll wonder what Napoleon was thinking -- whether the pain was clouding his judgement or if he simply trusted Illya more than he should have, but whatever the cause, he reached out and gently grabbed Illya’s shoulder, his partner’s name on his lips. 

It was as if the touch ignited the spark Illya had been able to tamp down and he whirled, shoving Solo away from him with all his strength, remembering the other man’s injury only too late. Napoleon let out a strangled scream and Illya reeled backwards, concern and shame flooding through him. 

_ “Shit _ ,” he hissed, kneeling at Napoleon’s side. “Solo?” 

Solo looked up at him with tears in his eyes, from the pain or the fact that  _ Illya  _ just fucking hurt him, and he was pale and trembling. 

“Napoleon?” Illya whispered, voice only a wisp. Solo turned and threw up, then drooped forward; only Illya’s grasp kept him from collapsing, but he pulled away as soon as he could keep himself upright again. “I’m -- Solo --” 

Napoleon swiped his good arm across his mouth and pulled himself more upright. “I gotta get -- I think I need a medic,” he said, eyes wide and overshadowing his pale face. Illya’s heart sank at the admission and he noticed for the first time that bruises were just beginning to peek out along Solo’s cheekbone, under his eye.  He was probably concussed.

“They, uh, they went with Gaby,” Illya said, “but I can drive you. If -- if you don’t --” 

Solo sighed, his lips pressed together, thin and bloodless. He looked very tired. “Let’s go,” he said, but he refused the hand that Illya extended and levered himself to his feet, gasping in pain by the time he was upright. He listed badly and stumbled all the way to the jeep Illya commandeered from one of the tac operatives, then wrenched the door open, staring at it for a moment in bewildered resignation. 

“Your arm might feel better if it’s stabilized,” Illya said, swallowing thickly. Solo grit his jaw -- Illya could see it from a few yards away -- and finally nodded. Illya grabbed the emergency blanket from the backseat and folded it, then approached Napoleon tentatively. 

“Not my arm,” he said through clamped teeth. “‘S my collarbone.” 

Illya raised his eyebrows.  “May I look?” Solo nodded his agreement so Illya carefully eased the shirt away from his chest. Even that small movement elicited a hiss and Illya winced in sympathy. The fracture wasn’t an open one, but the skin was tented up as if the bone formed a sharp angle beneath. There was already a bruise blooming out and across Napoleon’s upper chest.

“Did I do that?” he asked quietly as he tucked the blanket under Solo’s arm and wrapped it around the opposite shoulder. By the time he was finished, Napoleon was breathing in shallow gasps and sweat was beading along his forehead. 

“The little --” Here he paused to swallow and studiously  _ not  _ look at the wound -- “the little bump? Dunno,” he said finally, squeezing the word in around shallow little breaths. “Probably didn’t help.” Illya cleared his throat and nodded, then finished securing the sling and held the door open so Napoleon could climb in. 

Upon starting the car, they immediately lapsed into an awkward silence that Illya knew he more than deserved, and he actually found himself missing Napoleon’s incessant chatter. It was a strange realization. The silence was broken after only a few moments, but not in any way Illya was hoping; Solo’s breathing, which had settled for a bit after he got settled in the car, picked up again, and his teeth chattered together. Frowning, Illya glanced sideways at him and was disturbed to see that he was even paler, if that was possible, and shivering, with beads of sweat trickling down his temple. 

“Solo?” Illya said, his voice wavering. For all the guilt he’d been feeling, he hadn’t actually thought Napoleon’s injury was that serious. The way he looked now, though, suggested otherwise. He pulled the car to the side of the road and pressed two fingers to Solo’s neck. “Your pulse is fast, and weak,” Illya said, frowning. “I think you’re going into shock.” 

“‘M cold,” Solo said plaintively. “Dizzy.” 

“ _ Shit _ ,” Illya hissed. “You need to lay down, okay? Come on, lay down.” He eased Napoleon down so that his head was resting on the edge of Illya’s seat before taking his jacket off and spreading it over Solo’s torso. “Okay, can you lift your legs and rest them against the door?”

“O--okay,” Napoleon said, grunting as he managed to rest his legs against the window. “Shit, I’m -- ’m scared, Peril.” 

“You will be okay,” Illya said, brushing a hand against Napoleon’s forehead and then resting on his chest. “I will drive faster even than Gaby.” 

Solo let out a breathy chuckle. “I doubt th-that,” he said, teeth chattering together again. Illya cranked up the heat. 

“We will be there soon. Tell me a story.” 

“A sto-- about what?” 

“Anything. Your family?” 

That horrible, gasping laugh made a reappearance that had Illya wincing. “Not gonna tell you ‘bout them,” Solo said. 

“Can’t be worse than mine,” Illya said with a shrug.

“Mm,” Napoleon agreed. 

“Hey,” Illya said, glancing over at the other man and lightly shaking his shoulder. “Hey, Cowboy, stay awake.”

“Yeah,” Napoleon said, stirring slightly. 

“You're telling me all about your family, remember?” 

“Oh, yeah,” Napoleon sighed. “Right. I don't-- I don't actually -- where are we going again?” 

Illya's heart sank. “Just getting you to the hospital. Nearly there, now.”

“Yeah,” Solo said, voice slurring as if with sleep. 

“Cowboy?” 

There was no response, and Illya fumbled to feel for a pulse, relieved when he felt the too-quick rise of his chest. 

“Nearly there,” Illya repeated, hand still resting on Napoleon's chest. “We're nearly there.”

 

xxxx

Napoleon was rushed away as soon as they pulled up, and Illya was left strangely bereft and achingly alone. He went to the washroom and splashed cool water on his face, practiced the breathing techniques Solo was always droning on about, and eventually inquired after Gaby. He was directed to the waiting room on the surgical floor, which happened to be the third, and also happened to be where he would be waiting for Napoleon. 

There were a few members of the tac team still there, men that Illya should know by name but, embarrassingly, didn’t. They all stood there together in that awkward, anxious stasis so common in hospitals as they waited for word on their teammates. Illya had the added bonus of also feeling incredibly guilty, though he still wasn’t sure how much of that guilt was warranted. He had certainly treated Napoleon badly, and embarrassed him in front of the men, but he couldn’t quite stomach the thought of his shove worsening Solo’s injury and hoped against hope that he hadn’t. 

“Sir?” 

Illya glanced up, meeting the eyes of one of the more senior members of the TAC team -- Morris, he recalled, and felt rather proud of himself. “Yes?” 

“I overheard you earlier, sir, and just wanted to -- to let you know what I saw. I was with Agents Teller and Solo when they breached the building, sir.” 

“Go on.” 

“Miss Teller misread the signal, sir, and entered the building before she was supposed to. It took us by surprise and Mister Solo ran after her, but by the time I got there Miss Teller had been shot and Solo was on the ground. We were lucky we all got out.”

Illya’s stomach sank even further. “Thank you for telling me,” he said stiffly. Miller nodded and walked away, and Illya stared at the floor. 

A few minutes later the doctor came out and said Napoleon’s surgery had gone well; he would need a few weeks for the bone to heal and to recover fully from the blood loss, but he’d be back to his old self in no time. 

Illya left a few minutes after that.

 

xxxx

The next few days consisted mostly of Illya vehemently avoiding seeing Solo. He visited Gaby a few times -- she was mostly out of it the first couple, but by the third was fully conscious and absolutely mortified. 

“I misread it,” she said, bringing a trembling hand up to her forehead. “I put everyone in danger.”

“It happens to all of us,” Illya said. “We have all been new to the field.”

“But I bet you didn’t almost get yourself and another person killed.” 

Illya was silent and Gaby sighed. 

“I yelled at Napoleon,” Illya said after a moment. “I blamed him for your injury.” 

“Oh, Illya.” 

“I know.” 

“Have you apologized?” 

Illya looked down. “Not...entirely,” he said after a moment. 

“You should.” 

“I know.”

“Then why haven’t you?” 

Illya shrugged and bit his lip. “Is not Russian way.” He felt stupid as soon as he said it, but it was also the truth so he gave himself a little slack for it.

Gaby looked at him with an appraising eye, then yawned. “I’m getting tired,” she said, “but I would give him something you know he likes and just say sorry. Quick and easy.” 

“Quick and easy,” Illya echoed. “Okay.”

 

xxxx

Two days later, Illya stood outside of Solo’s door, breath making little clouds in the air and nose chafing from the cold. He’d been there for a few minutes already trying to gather the nerve to knock and feeling rather silly. He was about to  _ actually knock this time, you idiot  _ when the door opened from the inside to reveal a pale, sling-wearing Napoleon staring at him with an unamused expression. 

“How -- how long have you been watching?” Illya asked, clearing his throat awkwardly. 

“As long as you’ve been standing there,” Napoleon said. He raised an eyebrow and Illya startled and held up the gift he’d come bearing. 

“I made you a pizza,” he said. “It’s -- it’s a pizza margherita. I know you like those.” 

Napoleon stared at him for a second. “You made me a pizza?” 

“Yes,” Illya said. “It is an apology pizza.” 

“Ah,” Napoleon said with a flicker of a smile. “Is that a Russian thing?”

“Yes,” Illya said without missing a beat. “Is tradition.” 

“Well then,” Napoleon said. “I suppose you’d better come in.” 

Napoleon’s flat was small and tidy, and the TV was playing softly in the background. Illya shuffled inside and put the pizza on the table, then stood awkwardly. 

“I’ll just get some plates if you want to cut it?” 

“Plates?” Illya repeated. Solo sighed. 

“Do you want to eat with me? Watch some  _ Danger Man _ ?”

“Sure,” Illya said, taking the offered pizza cutter. “I am sorry. I should not have yelled at you like that, in front of the others. And I should not have shoved you.” 

The clatter of plates stopped for a moment and Napoleon finally brought them to the table, balanced on his good hand. “You know, the worst part wasn’t either of those things,” he said. “It was that -- it was that you thought I would let Gaby get hurt out of neglect. You have to know I would never do that. You do, right? Know that?” 

Illya made a careful slice across the pizza. “I do,” he said, “ and I did. I just let my emotions get the best of me.” 

Napoleon chuckled. “That’s not exactly something new.” 

“No,” Illya said, putting a slice on Napoleon’s plate. “But it won’t happen again.” 

Napoleon studied him for a moment. “You know, I believe you.” He took a massive bite out of the pizza and grinned. “And this is delicious. Now, how about that show?” 

Illya trailed after him, taking a bite of his slice. 

It wasn’t half bad.

  
  



End file.
